


Slow Down

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Hand Jobs, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kink Meme, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, Masturbation, Nicky's Erotic Talk and Joe's Verbal Kink, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love.Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.- Simone WeilWritten forthisKink Meme prompt: Nicky's normally reserved and a man of few words most of the time, but whenever he and Joe get the chance to slow down and make love, Nicky's inner poet comes out. A pure mix between wholesome and erotic.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 48
Kudos: 312





	Slow Down

February. Berlin, oh-nine, and the slushiest winter's ending they've experienced in some time, but, against a weak sun that's more the sort of eclipse Alma Thomas would have painted, Joe gets to have the solitude of locked doors leading to cosy rooms and a sweater that was big in places on both him and Nicky years ago virtually swallowing him up now in loose knit from too many washes. Warm perfection in dark burgundy.

Sometimes, he puts on a layer to ground him—a pair of solid boots, heels heavy and laces thick; tactical gear, as practical as it is settling. But downtime, however brief, means old favourites all around. Indulgent comfort, and the time to indulge.

Which also means ending up dozing halfway up the headboard, pile of pillows at his back, a book formerly entrancing now fallen to the floor the unlucky casualty. However, sleep-ruffled wool from neck to thighs hugs him still, an older pair of Nicky's joggers loose about the hips, and, thus, he can hardly wonder that he fell asleep while dust-speckled afternoon light is dancing between the curtains.

Downtime also means the absence of that telltale grip in his chest, the weary toll of centuries. Downtime means _rest_. It takes Joe a couple of seconds longer to let go of any given moment than it usually would, but, little by little, staring into the shadowy corners of rooms doesn't hurt his eyes anymore.

Getting dragged back into fragile consciousness by a persistent knocking is certainly not Joe's preferred wake-up method, if such a method were to exist at all, although he valiantly wrestles the covers off and near enough jumps out from the bed to reach the front door, bare feet tingling against hardwood. Only one solitary disgruntled sound makes its way from the back of his throat when his soles hit the floor, but it shortly becomes as easy as breathing to wake himself up, blood rushing to his head, a delightful craving for the brightness of their flat sparking behind his eyes.

Greeted after unchaining the door by Nicky, bundled up with a heavy coat and a soft-looking scarf, is a much better start to his wakefulness than even the sun itself. He swings the door widely open for him, perhaps unnecessarily so, and closes it at his back with a decided click, trapping the warmth inside.

"My key," Nicky explains, which means _forgotten_. And, "The buses were late all around," though Joe hasn't asked, hasn't thought to ask.

"My heart, you returned to me swifter than the speed of sound." Which is inevitably and undoubtedly untrue, but Joe spies a to-go box of the good sauce from the fantastic place they weren't sure even existed anymore, so hyperbole shall surely be the tone of the evening regardless.

Good-naturedly, Nicky smiles, toeing out of his shoes, setting the food aside to shrug out of his coat and unravel his scarf. Joe watches from the door and reaches for the hem of Nicky's own time-softened sweater to pull him closer, those few necessary steps to have him crowd Joe against the door itself.

Even though Joe's a little drowsy still with badly-timed sleep—the repercussions of afternoon naps are hard to shake—it's far from a bad kiss, not at all. Mouth landing firmly half on Nicky's upper lip and half on the patch of skin above it, Joe sinks into the sturdiness of Nicky pressed to his front very unlike the feel of him when they cram into each other during sleep. For one thing, the wood at his back is far less comfortable. For another, Nicky's belt buckle is digging into his lower stomach.

Moving barely a breath away, Nicky mumbles, "Sleep?" And Joe whispers, "Slept," to which Nicky nods, wordless, and catches his lips properly. Licks at the seam of them only once, a promise, before moving out of Joe's reach.

The hand not gripping at his sweater Joe puts around Nicky's waist and curls up around him, pulling him back in, shaking a little from the outside chill still clinging to his front. Nicky palms at the back of his neck in response. His hand is cold, but his grip is firm. Solid. Joe makes a soft noise, squeezing his waist once before pulling away towards the kitchen.

They heat up the sauce and make the pasta for it while Joe washes the dregs of sleep out of his eyes and brushes his teeth, then watches two pots boiling as Nicky changes into house clothes and bare feet he brushes against Joe's own while standing at the counter.

They eat at their small kitchen table, knees knocking together.

Joe tends to chew his bottom lip raw several times over listening when Nicky's got tales to recount, voice barely above a solemn undertone, words unmistakable nonetheless. Nine hundred years, and Joe's food still grows cold in front of him at words willingly poured onto him like fresh, crystalline water. And Nicky's focus is all sharp-eyed intensity, unsettling were it not him, were Joe not himself. Instead, it's arresting. Beneath the table, he uncrosses his ankles and plants his feet to the floor, seeking something solid beneath his soles.

After, Nicky does the dishes, Joe at his back distracting him. Nicky obviously allows himself to get distracted, leaning into his chest, and Joe can't help grinning into the side of his neck, gasping when Nicky shifts back between his thighs. Heat hitting him from forehead to navel through his torso, Joe pants wetly into his skin, cock twitching against the seam of his arse, filling leisurely from the warmth between them.

The sauce pot has to soak, so Nicky leads him back to the bedroom. Downtime also means this—whenever they like it, however they like, the absolute freedom of two bodies together.

They track their path to the bed through surreptitious kisses, hardly stealthy with the two of them grasping at each other every second of the way, but Joe's lips tingle nonetheless. Nicky kisses him hard, biting down where his bottom lip has healed over from mindlessly chewing it raw before. Joe can't help a startled moan. Instead of pushing into the kiss, he backs off barely a centimetre, a tease at trying to pull away. Instantly, Nicky follows him, never breaking contact from lips and tongue and teeth.

When Nicky eventually pushes at his chest one-handed to set some space between them, their eyes lock first, dizzyingly.

Nicky runs hot. Joe overheats in the night, but he basks in it. It's a different heat now.

With boisterous, almost sloppy hands, Nicky wrestles the sweater up Joe's torso and off his arms, paws at his bottoms to push them beneath Joe's arse, fingers skimming over his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. All the while he's mumbling, "Take these off. Show me," Joe's clothes flying haphazardly across the room once he steps out of them, Nicky following to palm at his hip bones.

"There doesn't seem much point. You did it yourself," Joe remarks, more teasingly than tartly, tilting his head back encouragingly for Nicky to mouth down his cheek across his beard to the thin skin of his neck, dropping his head down to Joe's shoulder.

"I could drown in you," Nicky swallows. He lifts his head, and Joe finds his eyes are very big, little of the blue-green left.

He tries to tease. "Don't. I need you to be useful. There's far better things to be doing than drowning," he adds, voice softer than he meant it to be. Too thready. Too open for what's bubbling up in his chest.

But Nicky takes him at his word anyway, nudging him a step, Joe backing into the bed on his own after that. Watching Nicky start to undress with utter efficiency, he sightlessly gropes his way to the nightstand and the lube. While he's shimmying out of his trousers, Joe seats himself at the edge of the mattress and moves to slump against the headboard and slicks his fingers before reaching between them to nudge at his rim.

Anticipating the raw stretch, belly heating up for it, Joe doesn't even bother starting with one. His fingers squelch, but Nicky is watching him like a hawk even as he's knee-walking to him, stopping between his bent legs, palming and mouthing at his inner thighs as Joe works both fingers inside, scissoring and angling them just right until they slip in easily and Joe's a flushed mess, the arm he's using to hold himself trembling behind him, Nicky whispering, "You're perfect, you're so perfect for me," into his skin.

So Joe, shuddering from chest to hip, has to slide his fingers out and pull him up by his shoulders as he all but falls back sideways onto the bed, missing all of the pillows and hardly bothered by it.

The weight of Nicky on top of him, between his open legs, is like nothing else. Face shadowed where it hangs forward to glance down along Joe's body with the sort of interested intent that's got Joe's stomach dipping and his toes curling and his face flushing. It's _purpose_ , in every line of Nicky's shoulders. When he raises his head, he faces him head-on, breaths panting, jaw set.

"Joe, Joe," Nicky says, and Joe, quiveringly overwhelmed, gazes up half-seeingly. "Look me in the eye, my love." And, "Always look me in the eye."

Joe does. Swallowing heavily, he inhales almost too much air for his chest to hold, but he keeps his eyes on Nicky's, who shivers when Joe arches forward to kiss the inside of one elbow, dragging his mouth down to his wrist, glancing up through his lashes. Always looking. Even as Nicky reaches between them to guide his cock down Joe's taint and between his cheeks, pre-come smearing everywhere, skimming his hole seemingly for hours until it _finally_ pushes forward.

The first thrust is slow and slick, tacky lube and Joe's muscles adjusting. Making a low, strangled sound above Joe's head, who pulls away to let their noses rest against each other, Nicky groans, "Never look away from me," breath tickling his face.

All of a sudden, Joe's body feels heavy and clumsy. It sinks deeper into the bed. But it's short-lived. Nicky pulls away only to rock back in, punching a breath from Joe and another and another, and he finally lifts his right leg, knee bent, foot flattening to the bed and arms encircling his shoulders for the leverage he needs to meet his thrusts, skin slapping against skin, greedily taking everything Nicky has to give him.

He takes it until he feels the ache in his glutes and a gentle soreness in his calves, then, without much warning, wraps both legs around Nicky to roll them over on the next thrust inside, landing in his lap near the edge of the bed. Not missing a beat, Nicky wordlessly lifts them up with only a brief look, shifting them up the bed until he manages to lean against the headboard, Joe in his arms, still impaled deeply.

Even as Joe straightens himself to balance on his upper thighs, his mouth is hanging open, silently working around what might be words or simply Nicky collecting his thoughts, a childhood habit broken when in company other than Joe's. There are no hidden mannerisms between them.

Joe knows that quirk of his lips well. Waiting, he rocks his hips, stifling a moan, finding a rhythm.

He doesn't have to ask. Nicky will always tell him.

"I can't believe you let me do this to you."

"What?" It comes out heavy, more than a word. A syllable dragged thinly into at least two more. His mouth is working oddly, though Joe can't find within his own scattered thoughts enough motivation to rectify the situation.

"Touch you," Nicky breathes. And, "I never lived before I touched you." Then, "I missed you squeezing around me, holding me," even though Joe opened himself up for Nicky just last night. Even though he sucked him dry that morning.

Within minutes, he's writhing helplessly in Nicky's lap, on Nicky's cock, heart beating wildly in his chest. He rests his head against Nicky's, forehead to forehead, a small mercy contained in this one simple touch.

"I'm yours to touch," he whispers frantically. Knows he's been heard regardless.

Twisting beneath him suddenly, Nicky's hips jump. Joe's skin feels feverishly tight, and his thighs splay themselves wider, back curving forward. Reaching between them, he sweeps his lube-slick thumb in deliciously relentless circles beneath the head of Joe's cock, dragging the pre-come around, his other hand palming at his chest as Joe grinds himself deliciously ragged, hands gripping the wall behind him.

He's already flushed like he's running a fever, not close exactly but getting there, a few more tugs of Nicky's hand or his palm brushing at his nipple, and he's certain he could see the edge soon enough, but then Nicky nudges him completely upright and runs his hands up and down the backs of his thighs, pushing his legs farther, letting him sink that tiny bit deeper.

Leaning his left cheek, hot and tingling, against the top of Nicky's head, he shivers and groans, voice a mangled mess, hips stuttering and hole clenching.

"Look at me. Don't drift away," he whispers, the words he's not saying, _don't let me drift away either,_ hanging between them.

And Joe wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but instead he squeezes around Nicky's gorgeous cock, and grunts as he grips at himself, and leans back to look into his eyes, all pupil, before he's spilling into his palm where he's been teasing at the slit and down his prick, dripping between his legs.

Nicky takes his weight to deposit him on his back, Joe hissing as Nicky's cock slips out, then crawls back between his legs to take himself in hand as Joe watches and drags his palms along his neck and shoulders until Nicky's come is streaked up his chest.

While Nicky is content to use the wet wipes in their nightstand to clean up, Joe _has_ to run a shower. The water is lukewarm, beating in time with his heart.

Afterwards, Joe finds him standing equally naked by the sink, rinsing the sauce pot. He approaches from the side to palm at his spine and press his face to the roundness of his shoulder, shivering when skin touches skin.

Turning, teeth-first, Nicky nips at the side of his neck, right below his beard, words brushing his throat, "What keeps me tethered is you," biting harshly once more before lingeringly laving his tongue across that patch of skin as Joe's body hiccups from head to toe.

It's not the only thing. It's not just Joe alone. It isn't just this. This is a drop in a well, in an ocean. But he knows Nicky means it, so he takes a half-step back to lock their eyes, the only language they truly need anymore, and then helps him put the dried dishes away.

**Author's Note:**

> Work sucks, hence why I am back on my soft bois bullshit. If you're still here for this nonsense, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment or even both, whatever you're comfortable with. Stay safe, dear hearts!
> 
> (And yes, Berlin in February of 2009 was wet and cold, or at least that's how I remember it. My fragile bones appreciated staying in, too.)
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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